


From Ashes

by MirrorMystic



Series: Wings of Rebellion [4]
Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Family, Gen, Lima Beans AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 21:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15494730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorMystic/pseuds/MirrorMystic
Summary: Grief has a way of twisting our memory. Some things slip away into the fog no matter how hard we try to hold on. Some hurts linger, no matter how hard we try to forget.The year 384 VC. Valentia is not at war-- not yet. But it’s certainly not at peace.The Duma Faithful have brazenly attacked the Zofian capital, setting fire to Lady Viktoriya’s cloister and scattering the royal family. Baby Celica and little Conrad fled to Ram Village, in the care of Conrad’s mother, Lady Viktoriya, and the deserter, Knight-Captain Mycen. Celica’s eldest siblings, Princess Octavia and Prince Arcturus, fled into the mountains, in the care of each other and fate itself.The night of the fire has seared itself into the pages of history. Follow the story of Zofia’s princesses, one thought lost, the other gone rogue, as they scatter in its wake.War is coming to Zofia, forged in fire. But amid the ashes, there is still hope…





	From Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back!
> 
> This AU is turning five, maybe six weeks old, and we're not done yet- not by a long shot. 
> 
> Be warned: while all the fics in this series are connected and some of them can be read standalone, this fic is a direct sequel to "The Night of the Fire". Spoilers abound! 
> 
> I hope we can keep bringing you more from the world of the Rothschild Rebellion, and I hope you all enjoy the read!

~*~  
  
Prince Arcturus Rothschild, fourteen-year-old Priest of Mila, knows what true power is.  
  
He has seen it, in his sister Tavi’s face as she bellows a war cry and cleaves her axe through the air. He has heard it in his Aunt Viktoriya’s voice at the altar on seven-day service, seen it shining crimson and gold from the staff in her hands.  
  
He has seen his Aunt Tori work miracles with this staff. He has seen her banish daemons, conjure phantasms bearing spear and shield, seen her bring a whole crowd of wounded to their feet in an eyeblink. Even now, her power lingers in her staff, the echoes of it thrumming through his fingers.  
  
Sister Viktoriya, Exalted of Mila, knew what power was, and how to wield it.  
  
He wishes she was here now.  
  
“Brothers and sisters, let us pray…”  
  
Arc’s voice trembles under the weight of his own words. He scans the gathered crowd, strangers all-- save for Tavi. He meets her crimson eyes with his own, and takes a shuddering breath.  
  
“Exalted Mila, giver of life, giver of your bounty and mother to us all: we ask of you a final boon…”  
  
Tavi steps forward. Her retainer, Harris, offers her the shovel.  
  
The first scoop of earth falls into Talia’s grave, spilling across her shrouded white form like arms around her waist.  
  
“Take your servant into your embrace,” Arc intones, his throat tight. “Guide this soul to a place of plenty, where justice is swift, pain is fleeting, and love is everlasting. Plant this soul in your garden, Mother Mila, and there she will bloom, evergreen…”  
  
Tavi turns, and passes the shovel down the line. One by one, Talia’s friends, neighbors, and co-workers all take turns placing a scoop of earth over her body. Only her parents stand apart, clinging to each other, shattered by their grief.  
  
There aren’t enough of them gathered in that little, nameless mountain village for her grave to be filled in a single pass. So they go again, and again, each time wishing the hole in their lives could be filled by something so simple as soil.  
  
Thunder rumbles overhead. Slowly, achingly, rain starts to fall.  
  
They say that Duma can be found in the flames. He is a god of fire and air, the elements of the forge, the hearth and home. Lady Liprica received a Rigelian funeral; a burning pyre and a plume of smoke, escorting her soul into the sky. Sister Viktoriya, a Priestess of Mila yet born in Rigel, performed the service personally.  
  
But in Zofia, the Mother Mila holds sway.  
  
Mila is in the rain.  
  
Talia, Handmaiden of House Rothschild, and a sister to Arc and Tavi for the last four years, did not receive a pyre. She did not receive the grand mausoleums of fallen nobles, immortalized in stone.  
  
Talia was returned to the Earth Mother’s embrace, enfolded in arms of soil and stone, while heaven itself joined her family in their tears.  
  
~*~  
  
For one, dreadful moment, she wonders if she’s dead.  
  
The afterlife is more… peaceful than she would have expected. Wind whistling through the trees. Sunlight slanting in through the windows, dappled green and gold. Viktoriya laying beside her, bearing a serene smile and a pure white gown, looking for the world like an angel-  
  
-or a ghost.  
  
Ashe jolts up in bed and immediately regrets it, pain lancing through her back. She doubles over with a pained gasp, clutching her stomach. Beneath her shift, she can feel the bandages wrapped tight around her chest and the sharp ache radiating out from between her shoulder blades. She reaches back, tentative, and prods at the linen. Her fingers come back sticky- not with blood, but some kind of herbal mixture, ground into a paste.  
  
Ashe throws her blanket aside, her eyes darting across her unfamiliar surroundings. She’s searching, searching for her sword, her breastplate, her boots-  
  
“Ashe?”  
  
Viktoriya stirs behind her, and Ashe lets out a breath. Even now, her voice is enough to take the edge off the racing thoughts.  
  
Ashe turns, slowly, the wound in her back protesting whenever she moves too fast. Viktoriya blinks up at her, with a warmth in her voice and in her eyes that sends a guilty pang through Ashe’s chest.  
  
“Ashe, what’s wrong?”  
  
Ashe grimaces. “Vicky. Where are we? Where- Where’s the girl?”  
  
“Oh, good! Y’all are awake!”  
  
The chipper country twang stops Ashe’s thoughts in their tracks. She glances up, puzzled, to find a woman standing in the doorway-- a lean little blonde, short but stout, baby Celica cradled in a nicely-toned arm. Little Conrad, at the sight of Viktoriya, bursts out from his hiding spot behind the woman’s knees and climbs up onto Viktoriya’s stomach. Viktoriya chuckles, a hand coming to rest in his curly red hair.  
  
“I hope y’all weren’t plannin’ on layin’ in bed all day,” the woman grins. “C’mon, get on up! There’s chores to be done!”  
  
~*~  
  
Their hostess, Ashe discovers, is a woman named Josefine Fletcher. She and her mother, Serafine Fletcher, are oddities among Ram Village. For one thing, they’re a pair of hunters and trappers in a town full of farmers. For another, they welcomed Ashe and her fellow refugees with open arms, when the rest of Ram had shut their doors in their faces.  
  
“Try not to take it personal,” Josefine says, when she, Ashe, and Viktoriya are in the kitchen fighting a mountain of carrots, turnips, and onions armed with nothing more than knives. “These folks ain’t exactly jumpin’ at the chance to have five more mouths to feed.”  
  
“Then why are you?” Ashe asks, dryly.  
  
“Ashe,” Viktoriya chides, nudging an elbow into Ashe’s ribs. “You’re very kind to be taking us in like this, Miss Fletcher.”  
  
Josefine barks out a laugh. “Please! Miz Fletcher’s my _ma_ .”  
  
Serafine grunts in acknowledgement from her seat in the living room. She and Mycen are on the couch, three kids between them. Conrad is busy trying to climb up Mycen’s chest, while Celica is asleep on Serafine’s lap, Josefine’s own one-year-old daughter staring at her, curious.  
  
“My friends call me ‘Efi’,” Josefine continues. “Not that I have too many friends. My ma and I ain’t too popular here in Ram.”  
  
“Why’s that?” Ashe wonders.  
  
“Because of the curse!” Serafine calls from the couch.  
  
Josefine’s eyes practically roll into her skull. “Ma. There’s no curse.”  
  
“Yes, there is! Going back a thousand years, sure as sure!”  
  
“Ma, there is no curse on this family!”  
  
“A curse, huh?” Ashe wonders, bemused.  
  
“Aw, c’mon, hon,” Josefine says, dismayed. “Don’t get her started…”  
  
“The curse of the Fletcher family,” Serafine announces, with all the gravitas the crone can muster. “Our family has been hunters and trappers for generations, masters of the dagger, snare, bow and arrow. You’ll find no finer shot in all Valentia, but our ancestor, Felix Fletcher, was the finest of them all.  
  
“He claimed that he could out-shoot Duma himself, that he did! Went so far as to throw his own archery tournament, inviting the finest bowmen from across the continent, daring the Forge Father to attend and prove his worth! And the gods, you see, they don’t take kindly to boasters, not at all.  
  
“So Felix throws his tournament, and there’s feasting and shouting and everyone is merry, everyone gets a little too deep in their cups. And halfway through the tournament, Felix crows out his challenge to the sky, ‘It seems Duma himself is too much of a coward to challenge me!’  
  
“Duma descended on a bolt of lightning, his warbow clutched in his mighty grasp. All the other marksmen stepped down, unwilling to test their skill against the god himself. But Felix, in his foolishness, beckoned him to the range.  
  
“Duma’s shot flew fair and true, and struck the target dead center. Perfect, absolutely perfect, fitting for the god of war and the forge. Then Felix stepped up. He nocked his arrow-- one he made and fletched himself, don’tcha know, for we Fletchers weren’t named that for nothing-- drew it back, and let it fly.  
  
“His arrow hit the target dead center, and split Duma’s arrow in two.  
  
“The War Father was furious. In his wrath, he struck down Felix with a single blow, a strike so powerful it echoed down his bloodline. And so, Duma cursed the men of the Fletcher family never to die old and in bed-- they would die young, on the battlefield, for, as Duma declared, ‘being the better shot means nothing if you don’t shoot first’.”  
  
Serafine finishes with a satisfied grin, the look of a woman who hasn’t had such a rapt audience in ages. Ashe whistles, long and low. Mycen chuckles, and shakes his head.  
  
“It sounds like Duma’s a bit of a sore loser,” Mycen says.  
  
“We should always be wary of gods and their pride,” Viktoriya mutters, nodding.  
  
“And so it has been, for a thousand years,” Serafine continues. “The men of the Fletcher line die young. Never by sickness, oh no, but by violence, whether by bandit or beast. Even men who marry into the family aren’t immune. The curse took my poor Harald, oh, years ago now. The curse took Josefine’s poor Jaden.” Serafine’s hand darts out and playfully claps against Mycen’s shoulder, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “And it’ll take _you_ , too, if you’re not careful.”  
  
“ _Ma!_ ” Josefine wails, embarrassed.  
  
Mycen laughs, grinning. “I’m not sure about all that. But I’ve no intention of dying in a bed.”  
  
“Not yet, anyway,” Ashe adds, somber. Viktoriya pointedly meets her eyes. Ashe quirks her lip, and looks away.  
  
“That’s fine by me,” Josefine says, merrily chopping away. “The house hasn’t been this lively in ages. And while everyone else might scoff at five more eaters straining their fields, Mila provides. No guest of mine is going hungry while Ma and I can still hold a bow.”  
  
Ashe nods, distracted. She exhales, sets her knife down, and wanders outside. Viktoriya follows her, first with her eyes, then with the rest of her.  
  
“Don’t be gone too long!” Josefine calls out after them, relentlessly chipper. “After we’re done with this pile, we still got potatoes to peel!”  
  
Outside, life in Ram VIllage goes on as if the night of the fire was just a bad dream. Ashe stands on the steps of their impromptu sanctuary, hugging her arms to her chest. She gazes out at the half-lit horizon, the brilliant sun dimmed by encroaching clouds. She stands there and feels the breeze through her hair, feeling the sting between her shoulders.  
  
Viktoriya appears beside her, quiet, pensive. Together, they watch Josefine’s daughter staring at baby Celica with the intensity only a child could manage. She reaches out, and claps a tiny hand over Celica’s nose. Celica sneezes, the other girl giggles, and Serafine cackles while Josefine calls “Faye!” in exasperation.  
  
Ashe takes a deep breath, and frowns.  
  
“...Your daughter?” she wonders softly.  
  
Viktoriya nods. “Yes. Celica. Born to my-” Her breath hitches. “...my wife. Liprica.”  
  
Ashe looks up sharply, the ache in her back spearing through her chest. “...Was she- she didn’t-”  
  
“No, no,” Viktoriya says, reassuring. “Not in the fire. Illness, after Celica was born.”  
  
It’s a cold comfort, at best. Ashe exhales. “...I’m so sorry, Vicky.”  
  
Pain flickers across Viktoriya’s face. It’s there for a moment, and then it’s gone, smoothed over like stone.  
  
“It’s alright,” Viktoriya says. “We endure.”  
  
They stand there together for a long moment, not sure what to say. The wind rustles the trees around them. The first leaves of autumn start to fall, like embers, red and gold.  
  
“Why did you save me?” Ashe asks.  
  
Viktoriya stares at her. “‘ _Why_ ’?”  
  
“You could have left me,” Ashe says, her voice small, distant. “You could have left me there, with an arrow in my spine, and I would have burned along with your cloister and the rest of your servants. I would have died in the fire I brought to your doorstep. It would have been… poetic. Just.”  
  
Viktoriya still stares at her, baffled. “Ashe. You’re my _friend_ .”  
  
“I’m a _killer_ , Vicky,” Ashe snaps. “Whether I’ve killed in Duma’s name or not, it makes no difference. You could have left me there to burn, and no one would have thought ill of you for it. Not even me.”  
  
“You want to know why I didn’t _leave you to die_ ?” Viktoriya asks, aghast. “You really don’t know?”  
  
Viktoriya takes her by the shoulder, searching her eyes, but Ashe tears her gaze away, staring at the porch steps. She shrugs, resigned, helpless.  
  
“...It would have been just.”  
  
Viktoriya tries to coax Ashe into meeting her eyes, but Ashe won’t budge. She sighs, squeezing Ashe’s shoulder before reluctantly pulling away.  
  
“...Maybe,” Viktoriya admits. “Maybe it would have been. But I loved you, Ashe. I know you. And where the Forge Father would demand justice, Mother Mila counsels… mercy.”  
  
Ashe huffs, eager to push the conversation away from what used to be, and likely never will be again. “The High Dragons are lost.”  
  
“Don’t say that.”  
  
“It seems today will be a day of truths you cannot stomach,” Ashe muses, bitter. “I should have died, last night. The Brand-bearer should have been taken, and her soul would have cleansed the sickness from the gods’ ailing minds. But now, here we stand. I am alive. Your daughter is safe. Now we will live, only to witness the fall of the High Dragons to madness and ruin.”  
  
“Ashe, we will find a way-”  
  
“How?!” Ashe snaps. “We are refugees in a backwater village scarcely worth putting on a map. The agents of the Empire are still scouring all Zofia for you and your daughter. And our merry band is supposed to find a solution to an illness that threatens gods? An aging knight, an Imperial defector, a priestess without a church, a little boy and a lost princess! What are we supposed to do now? What _can_ we do now?!”  
  
Ashe snarls, her voice raw with despair. But then she feels arms around her waist, and Viktoriya’s soothing voice in her ear.  
  
“We endure,” Viktoriya whispers.  
  
Viktoriya pulls Ashe into her arms. The pain that lances between her shoulder blades is nothing compared to that which rises out of her core, wordless, monstrous, and overwhelming. It washes over them both like a tidal wave, and Ashe melts into Viktoriya’s embrace, stubbornly swiping her arms across her eyes, immersed in anger and grief and the myriad hurts she can’t even name.  
  
Viktoriya holds her like she did, long ago, as a girl in Rigel. She holds her as Ashe trembles in the deluge of feeling, ensuring she isn’t swept away. She holds her until her shoulders stop shaking and the sun dips below the trees-- and a little while longer, after that, when she finally ushers Ashe back inside, and the worry in Josefine’s eyes melts into pride when she announces that they’re just in time for dinner.  
  
~*~  
  
Across Zofia, in the mountains astride the Zofian capital, neither Arc nor Tavi have much of an appetite.  
  
Melusine hosts a reception following Talia’s funeral. There is a sharp divide between Talia’s neighbors and her coworkers from the capital, and Melusine is the one tenuous link between them. Gerard and Harris, two of Melusine’s fellow retainers, make some effort to mingle with the other villagers. Arc and Tavi spend much of the night alone, aloof.  
  
Tavi sits at the end of a long bench table, her chin in her hand. She’s glowering at her glass, as if she could transform it into something a lot stronger than water by sheer willpower alone.  
  
Talia’s parents don’t attend the reception. Their voices echo in the siblings’ heads.  
  
_“She’s gone,” Talia’s father mutters, stunned, staring at the patch of bare earth. “She’s gone,” he echoes, again and again, staring out at something miles away._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Talia gave her life for us,” Tavi says softly. She dips her head, Arc mirroring her. “We were honored to have her in our service.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“She died for you,” Talia’s mother growls, her voice like ice. “My baby’s gone, because of you. She had her whole life ahead of her. She could have grown up, fallen in love, married, had kids of her own. But no. She died for_ **_you_ ** _.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Tavi clenches her fists. But then she feels Arc’s hand on her arm, and she swallows hard._ _  
_ _  
_ _“...We’re so sorry for your loss.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Don’t give me that_ **_shit_ ** _!” Talia’s mother snaps, and suddenly, all eyes are on her. “What do you know of loss? Huh? You pampered palace brat! You have the world given to you on a silver platter and you come here to cry for my daughter? These are the people she gives her life for! The children of a man who doesn’t even know her name!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Your daughter is a hero,” Arc tries._ _  
_ _  
_ _“My daughter is_ **_dead_ ** _! Because of_ **_you_ ** _,” Talia’s mother seethes. “You might as well have killed her yourself!”_  
  
Tavi takes a shuddering breath. She snatches her glass off the table and knocks it back. Maybe wine or ale would have blotted out the memory. But the water is cool, and crisp, and only sharpens the ache.  
  
Tavi reflexively moves to bump an elbow against Arc’s, but his absence beside her makes her snap her head up in alarm. Her eyes dart across the room, frantic- but then she finds him, in the corner, making hushed conversation with Melusine.  
  
Tavi breathes out a curse, irritated at her own nerves. The last 24 hours had run her ragged. The fire, the trek up to the village, the funeral, now the reception… How much difference a day makes. Some part of her, some scared, lonely part of her, wants to make sure Arc never leaves her sight again. The last time he did, he caught an axe to the mouth, and it would have been an axe to the skull if Tavi hadn’t shown up. But then again, even when Tavi was right there beside her, Talia…  
  
Tavi sucked in a ragged breath. She stubbornly swiped a sleeve across her eyes.  
  
“‘Scuse me, Your Highness?”  
  
The girl’s voice is just plaintive and pleasant enough for Tavi not to bark at her to leave her alone. Tavi glances up, and sees a teenage girl, awkward and long-limbed, with tawny hair and a dress the color of wheat.  
  
“Is this seat taken?” The girl asks, sitting beside Tavi without waiting for an answer. Tavi’s lips quirk in the ghost of a smile, at her boldness, at the rural twang in her voice.  
  
The girl smiles at her, sunny, the only sun that Tavi’s seen after a day of rain, rain, rain.  
  
“I’m Vesper,” she says.  
  
“Hey,” Tavi says, the ghost of her smile slowly coming to life. “Call me Tavi.”  
  
“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Highness, but everybody knows who _you_ are,” Vesper beams.  
  
Tavi’s smile turns rueful. “...You mean the reason your neighbor Talia’s dead?”  
  
Vesper stares at her. “Hey, now… this wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“Really?” Tavi opens her arms, gesturing to the rest of the townsfolk crowded into Melusine’s living room, every one of them save Vesper giving her a wide berth. “That’s what I’ve been hearing. That’s what people tell me. They’ve been _very_ specific.”  
  
“Who’s been saying that?” Vesper demands. “I’ll fight ‘em!”  
  
Tavi snorts, and Vesper’s pouty indignance melts into a warm smile.  
  
They spend the evening talking together, or rather, Tavi does most of the talking while Vesper listens, nodding along. They talk about life in the capital; about Tavi’s aunts, her siblings; about Talia. They talk, and the crowd disperses, singly or in pairs, drifting back to their homes, carrying their grief with them. It isn’t long before they’re the only ones left at the table, only a smattering of guests lingering along the walls.  
  
A pair of shadows loom across them, and Tavi looks up. Two of Viktoriya’s retainers- her retainers, now, Tavi reminded herself- stood before her, two young men looking awkward but well-intentioned, wringing their hands. Harris, a slip of a blonde whose skinny arms seemed ill-suited for shoveling manure, and Gerard, a lumberjack who better looked the part.  
  
“What’s up, guys?” Tavi asks, too exhausted for decorum.  
  
“Hey,” Harris begins. “You, uh. You doing okay, Princess?”  
  
“C’mon, man,” Gerard chides, digging an elbow into his ribs. “That’s no way to say it.”  
  
“Listen,” Tavi says, rubbing her eyes. “Let’s just get this out of the way. I know I’m a princess. I don’t really care. Just talk normal with me, alright? It’s fine.”  
  
Harris and Gerard exchange looks. Harris clears his throat.  
  
“Okay. Well, uh… we was just wonderin’... what do we do now?”  
  
Tavi’s expression darkens in an instant. Beside her, Vesper, her brief and unexpected light in the dark, goes similarly clouded, troubled. Tavi sinks down in her seat with a groan, sprawling forward across the table and burying her head in her arms.  
  
“‘What do we do now’...?” Tavi heaves a sigh that could move mountains. “Well, ain’t that a question and a half. I don’t know. Okay? I don’t know. I know what _I’d_ like to do. But you don’t have to help me do it. You could stay here in this village, make a life here. What do you guys want to do?”  
  
“We swore ourselves to you,” Harris says. “We’re in your debt. And we’re in your service.”  
  
“You saved our lives,” Gerard agrees. “Wherever you go, we’ll follow.”  
  
Tavi looks up, a dangerous glint in her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is like is ice.  
  
“What if I said I wanted to march down to Zofia Castle and bury an axe in my father’s head?” Tavi growls. “Would you follow me then?”  
  
Harris and Gerard exchange glances. Neither of them can quite look Tavi in the eyes.  
  
“Your Highness?” Melusine says as she appears, Arc in tow. “I, um, I hope I’m not interrupting…”  
  
She is, but Harris and Gerard are glad for it. They step back, stiff, clearing their throats, as Arc takes the seat at Tavi’s left hand, right where he belongs, and Melusine dips her head towards the two royals, her hands clasped primly over her stomach.  
  
“Princess Octavia,” Melusine begins, catching Vesper’s eyes and smiling. “...I see you’ve met my baby sister. I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble…”  
  
“ _Mel!_ ” Vesper whines.  
  
“No, no,” Tavi waves the thought away. “She’s actually been great company.”  
  
Vesper preens, her cheeks warm. Melusine just laughs, knowingly.  
  
“I’m glad,” Melusine says. “Now, Your Highness… as to the matter of your accommodation. You’re certain you don’t wish to return to your villa in the capital?”  
  
Tavi meets Arc’s eyes. The pained glance is all the answer she needs.  
  
“...We’re not going back to that empty house,” Tavi says, somber.  
  
Melusine nods in sympathy. “I understand. In that case, I would like to offer you the shelter of my own home. I know my humble abode may not be quite fitting of royalty. But you saved my life, Your Highness. This is all I can offer you. And it is the least I can offer you, after what you have done for me, and mine.”  
  
“You’re very kind,” Arc says gently. “Thank you.”  
  
“Aww, and just when I was getting used to having the house all to myself…” Vesper teases.  
  
“Thank you, Melusine,” Tavi says. Even now, at sixteen, the would-be Queen has a voice that draws all eyes to her. “Your offer is very generous. But I cannot accept it-- at least, not yet. There is still something that I need to do.”  
  
“H-Hold up,” Gerard begins, uneasy. “You’re… you’re really gonna go to the castle?”  
  
“I am,” Tavi declares.  
  
“Tavi,” Arc warns, “let’s not do anything reckless-”  
  
“Arc,” Tavi snaps, in a tone that brooks no argument. “I’m going to the castle, and I’m going to give Dad a piece of my fucking mind. You can come with me, or you can stay here until I get back. But you won’t stop me from going. So are you with me, or not?”  
  
Arc meets her gaze, unyielding. Eventually, he sighs.  
  
“I’m with you, Tavi,” he says, like a prayer. “Now, and always.”  
  
A distant tolling echoes across the rooftops. Arc and Tavi glance up, puzzled, while a knowing dread flickers across Melusine and Vesper’s faces. A moment later, a runner’s voice drifts into the living room.  
  
“Alarm! Alarm!” the runner cries. “Everyone, get inside and lock your doors! Bandits on the high road!”  
  
Tavi’s fist slams down onto the table.  
  
“Damn it!” she snarls. “Tonight just has to pile it on…”  
  
She feels Arc’s hand on her arm, and Tavi takes a calming breath.  
  
“Alright!” Tavi barks, her frustration and anger channeled into the fire of command. “I need volunteers, and I need them armed!”  
  
Melusine scurries into action, reaching for the veteran’s weapons hanging above her fireplace. Tavi grabs her war axe from where she’d left it leaning against the table. Gerard lifts his own axe, both of them stolen from Rigelian raiders the night before.  
  
“I’m with you, Princess,” Gerard says. He lifts his axe and clangs it against Tavi’s in salute.  
  
“I’m with you, Tavi,” Arc says. He raises Viktoriya’s staff, shimmering in his hands.  
  
“I’m a fair hand with a spear,” Harris offers. Melusine pulls a lance down from her mantelpiece and tosses it into his waiting hands.  
  
“Here,” Melusine calls. “My father’s, before he passed.”  
  
“Thank you,” Harris nods. “I’m with you, Princess!”  
  
“I am, too!”  
  
Melusine whirls around to find Vesper holding their father’s sword, half drawn from its sheath.  
  
“Vesper, no!” Melusine grabs the sword and shoves it back into its scabbard. She tries to pull it from her hands, but Vesper doesn’t budge.  
  
“Why not?” Vesper demands.  
  
“You’re _sixteen_ !”  
  
“So’s the princess!” Vesper fires back. “Prince Arc’s even younger! They’re fighting for us! Why can’t I?!”  
  
“Because-” Melusine stops short, anguished. She meets Tavi’s eyes across the room with an expression that just about tears her in half. Tavi swallows hard.  
  
“I need every arm I can get,” Tavi says, wincing at the way Melusine’s face crumbles at her words. She crosses the room, taking Melusine by the shoulder. “But look at me, Mel. _Look at me_ .”  
  
Melusine meets her eyes, frightened, pleading.  
  
“Please, Your Highness, don’t do this. She’s the only family I have left-”  
  
“She’s not going anywhere, okay, Melusine?” Tavi says, her voice firm. “I’m not losing anyone tonight. Not now. Not ever. If you go to war with me, you’ll come out of it with me, too, and that’s a promise. I swear it on my life. Okay?”  
  
Melusine takes a deep breath. Nods.  
  
“Okay, Princess,” Melusine says resolute. She raises a leather scabbard and draws her dagger. “Where do you want me?”  
  
“Let’s go! Everyone, with me!” Tavi calls, ushering her makeshift militia out into the town square.  
  
The watchman at the lookout tower tolls the town bell one last time, before dropping from his post and fleeing into the village. The bandits surge through the gate at his heels, knives and axes glinting in the dark.  
  
They howl out their war cries like a pack of wolves, gleefully chasing down easy prey.  
  
They don’t expect Tavi, snarling like a mother bear and meeting their charge head-on.  
  
~*~  
  
Back in Ram, over the next few days, life returns to some semblance of normalcy. Ashe, despite, or because of, the arrow wound in her back, is encouraged to get some exercise. That’s how she came to find herself facing down Mycen, sword drawn, cape flitting in the breeze.  
  
Being an outsider in enemy territory, being around Viktoriya again, being around their sunny hostess Josefine and a gaggle of young children, all these things come strangely to Ashe. Compared to all that, having her sword back in her hands feels comfortingly mundane.  
  
The clashing of their blades rings out across the town square, doing little to improve the Fletcher family’s reputation as the odd ducks of the town. Viktoriya and Josefine sit together on a park bench, watching the duel, little Conrad swinging his legs on the edge of the bench. Faye, as usual, spends much of her time staring at Celica, asleep in Viktoriya’s arms, and wondering why she’s so boring.  
  
Ashe’s blade clashes against Mycen’s and they break apart, Mycen settling into a low, steady stance while Ashe skitters away, light on her feet. They launch into a set of sword forms and parries, both of them so reflexive in their use that they can talk while they practice.  
  
“I told the village elders that I was Viktoriya’s father,” Mycen says, catching Ashe’s blade against his with a grunt. “I figured that was the explanation that would save me the biggest headache. We’re welcome here, inasmuch as they won’t throw us out. We’re free to make a life here, if we so choose. After that… who can say.”  
  
Mycen breaks from a parry so hard that the vibration rattles Ashe’s fingers. She smiles, rueful.  
  
“If you’re Viktoriya’s father, now, what does that make me?”  
  
“Just another spinster under Josefine’s roof,” Mycen chuckles. “You and Viktoriya fit right in.”  
  
“It’s not how you imagined spending your retirement, is it?”  
  
Mycen shrugs. “You’d be surprised. Nice little place in the country, far away from the capital and its troubles… I did think I’d be a little older, though. Grayer, maybe. Fewer secrets.”  
  
“...Yeah,” Ashe sighs. She braces her sword in both hands, and leaps back into the fray.  
  
Across the way, Josefine takes a deep breath and lets out a satisfied sigh, looping an arm over the back of the bench. She watches Faye waddle around on her chubby little legs, having abandoned Celica-watching to chase butterflies through the grass.  
  
“What’s that?” Conrad asks, pointing. Viktoriya follows his gaze.  
  
“That’s a sword,” Viktoriya coos. “Captain Mycen uses it to fight bad people.”  
  
“Is that lady a bad people?”  
  
Viktoriya glances up at Ashe. Her lips curl into a sad smile.  
  
“You mean a bad ‘person’, Conrad. And… no. Not really.”  
  
“But they’re fighting.”  
  
“This is different, kiddo,” Josefine chimes in. “They’re just… exercising. Playing.”  
  
“If I had a sword, could I fight bad people?”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Josefine nods vigorously. “You could fight all the bad guys you want!”  
  
Conrad’s eyes light up. “I want a sword!”  
  
Josefine winces and laughs while Viktoriya sighs and shakes her head.  
  
“Maybe when you’re older, sweetie,” Viktoriya coos.  
  
“Oh, he’s a cutie,” Josefine grins, bumping an elbow against Viktoriya’s. “Both of your kiddos are just little angels. Meanwhile, Faye over here would roll around in mud and eat bugs if I let her.”  
  
“She’s certainly full of energy,” Viktoriya smiles. “Like her mother.”  
  
“Haha, you know it!” Josefine sighs, content. “Man, Vicky… I missed this. Having people around the house. You and your folks really liven up the place, you know that? ‘Fore you came along, gods, it’d been so long since I even had somebody to talk to…”  
  
“What about Sera?” Viktoriya asks.  
  
“Oh, well, Ma’s great, but she’s got a bit of a one-track mind, you know?” Josefine chuckles. “‘Fore Faye came long, it was always ‘when am I getting grandkids? When am I getting grandkids?’ Now, it’s ‘when can I teach her to shoot?’ Like, c’mon, Ma. Let’s have that talk when we’ve got a bow in the house that Faye’s actually taller than. Y’know, with Jaden…”  
  
Josefine trails off, and Vicky sees it- the flicker of hesitation across Josefine’s relentlessly sunny demeanor, like a wisp of cloud on an otherwise beautiful day.  
  
The clash of blades pulls their attention away, just for a moment. Ashe is staggering back, her sword shaking in her hands, panting. Mycen tuts and shakes his head.  
  
“You’re too light on your feet,” he calls. “You ought to learn how to stand your ground. Some things, you can’t dodge forever.”  
  
Ashe grits her teeth and leaps back into the fray, her blade flashing in her hands. While Viktoriya watches the duel, Josefine looks beyond- at something on the horizon, something miles-- or months-- away.  
  
“Your husband, Jaden,” Viktoriya begins, gently. “What happened to him, if I may ask?”  
  
“Oh, don’t you know? The _curse_ got him,” Josefine mutters dryly.  
  
“Efi.”  
  
Josefine sighs. “It was a bear that killed him. His first shot missed its heart. Bear got to him before he could take another.”  
  
Viktoriya bows her head. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“It is what it is,” Josefine shrugs, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. “Can’t blame the bear, though. We got stupid. Forgot one of the first rules of the wild: never get between a mama bear and her cub. Can’t say we didn’t have that comin’.”  
  
“How do you know it was the mother?” Viktoriya wonders. “Wouldn’t a father bear also fight for his young?”  
  
Josefine smiles, somewhat satisfied at getting to explain something to a high-and-mighty noblewoman. Compared to the loss of her husband, it’s a tiny, pitiful victory.  
  
“You didn’t grow up in no woods, so just trust me on this,” Josefine muses. “A mama bear protects her young. She’ll do anything to keep ‘em safe, kill if she has to. But Papa?”  
  
Josefine sucks her teeth and shakes her head, grim.  
  
“Sometimes, it’s the papa bears that Mama’s keeping her kids safe from,” Josefine mutters. “A papa bear doesn’t give a shit about its children. A papa bear will just leave them to die.”  
  
~*~  
  
“Shut up! _Shut up!_ ”  
  
Sir Slayde, acting commander of the Knights of Zofia, strikes the haft of his lance against Castle Zofia’s polished stone floor. The cacophony of voices filling the audience chamber dies down, but only just.  
  
“One at a time, you ingrates!” Slayde snaps.  
  
Above him, Lima IV, King of Zofia, sits hunched over in his throne, his chin in his hands, gazing out over the crowd of chattering scribes with utter disinterest. He yawns, reaching up and scratching at his stubble, unable to become a proper beard despite his best efforts. He stabs a finger into the clamoring crowd, pointing at random.  
  
“You there!” he drawls. “What is your question?”  
  
The scribe steps forward, a young woman with rich, sepia skin under a pale blue headscarf. She clutches a tome to her chest with one hand, a quill ready and waiting in the other.  
  
“Your Majesty,” she begins, nudging her spectacles up on her nose, “Cassandra Vega, representing the Zofian Chronicle…”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Lima rolls his eyes. “Get on with it.”  
  
“Your Majesty,” Cassie continues, “it’s been days now and there’s been no official statement. What happened at the cloister of Saint Viktoriya? Where is Prince Conrad and Princess Anthiese?”  
  
“Calm down, girlie,” Lima replies, raising a hand. “As I’m sure you hawk-eyed observers could have gathered by looking out the window that night, three nights ago, Lady Viktoriya’s cloister was set ablaze and burned down. It’s a wonder it hasn’t happened sooner, all those candelabra…”  
  
“Your Majesty,” Cassie presses, “what happened to Lady Viktoriya and her children? What happened to Prince Conrad and Princess Anthiese?”  
  
Lima rolls his eyes. “Well, you’re a nosy one, aren’t you…?”  
  
“With _respect_ , Your Majesty,” Cassie snaps, “I am doing my job. With your callous disregard for the life of your wife and children, I can hardly say the same for you!”  
  
An ugly murmur flickers through the crowd, and Cassie’s fellow scribes step away, as if not to be caught in King Lima’s ire. Lima, for his part, simply raises an eyebrow, idly examining his fingernails.  
  
“Where is Lady Viktoriya? Where is Prince Conrad and Princess Anthiese? Are they safe? Are they alive? Do you know? Do you _care_ ?” Cassie stabs her quill towards Lima’s heart in accusation. “There are reports that Lady Viktoriya’s cloister was set ablaze by Rigelian troops! Who were these men, Your Majesty? Were they acting alone, or were they acting on behalf of all Rigel? What does this mean for the Divine Accord? What does this mean for our country?!”  
  
“ _Your_ country?” Lima scoffs. “ _Your country?_ I am the King of Zofia, you silly girl. You are a dog who’s learned to hold a quill, sitting at _my_ table and snapping at scraps! I am a King, and I will not suffer this inane questioning from a worm like you!”  
  
“ **_Then you will suffer me!_ ** ”  
  
The doors to the audience chamber fly open so hard they slam into the walls. Tavi strides in, Arc at her heels, Lady Viktoriya’s regal crimson robe flaring behind her with every step.  
  
“Princess Octavia?” Cassie whispers, stunned, her words echoed within the shocked, murmuring crowd.  
  
Lima rolls his eyes.  
  
“Octavia, dear, do run along. Daddy’s working-”  
  
“You shut your fucking mouth!” Tavi snaps. She marches up to the throne, the crowd of scribes parting around her like the sea around a stone. She glowers up at her father, condescending and useless on his throne, before snapping her gaze to the scribes gathered around her.  
  
“Write this down!” Tavi barks. To a man, the crowd obeys. “The cloister of Sister Viktoriya, High Priestess of Zofia, was attacked and desecrated by soldiers of Rigel!”  
  
“Rigel!” someone hisses.  
  
“Was this an act of war, Your Highness?”  
  
“What does this mean for the Accord?”  
  
“Everyone, please,” Lima cuts in. “The fire that destroyed Viktoriya’s cloister was a tragic accident, nothing more. Please, pay no mind to the deranged ramblings of a warmongering child-”  
  
“I was there!” Tavi bellows. “I was there, fighting for the lives of Aunt Tori and her house servants! I was there when Handmaiden Talia gave her life so I could escape!”  
  
Lima blinked at her, puzzled. “...Who was that, again…?”  
  
For a split-second, Tavi sees red- but then Arc is beside her, his hand on her arm pulling her down, keeping her grounded. Tavi seethes, clenching her fists. Arc raises his head, glaring up at his father.  
  
“Handmaiden Talia was our guardian after Tavi’s mother passed and mine went missing,” Arc said levelly. “She took care of us so you didn’t have to. We took her home to her village in the mountains. We buried her last night, and we defended her town from brigands. Where were you on the night of the fire, father? Where were the Knights of Zofia?”  
  
“They were here, in the capital, of course,” Lima scoffed. “Defending the people. Where else would they be?”  
  
“Were they defending the people, Your Majesty?” Cassie dares. “Or were they defending _you_ ?”  
  
Tavi smirks. She gives Cassie a nod, before glaring back up at her father’s throne.  
  
“Here’s someone who speaks sense,” she says.  
  
“Smart-mouthed little peasant!” Slayde snaps, his grip tightening around his spear. “How dare a commoner speak so to a _King_ -”  
  
“ _Bite your tongue,_ **_minion_ ** _!_ ” Tavi shrieks. “Or _I_ will tear it out myself!”  
  
Slayde glowers, but says nothing. Lima rolls his eyes, and gets to his feet.  
  
“Are you done with your little tantrum, Octavia?” Lima muses. He nods to Arc. “Boy. You ought to keep your bitch on a tighter leash. What makes you think you can speak to me like this? What makes you think you can throw these accusations at my feet as if they are more than words? I am the King of Zofia! _Who_ rules this nation? _Who_ decides its laws, its decrees?!”  
  
“Your board of advisors who do your work for you because you’re too busy _getting your dick wet!_ ” Tavi snaps. “You don’t give a damn about your people. You don’t give a damn about your own family! You are a disgrace to that crown, _and_ to that throne!”  
  
Lima smiles, and slumps back into his seat.  
  
“...Bark at me all you like, little bitch. At the end of the day, I will still be King, and you will still have nothing.”  
  
“Then I’ll just have to take what I want,” Tavi growls. “I’ll take your throne. I’ll take your crown. And I’ll take your head right off your fucking shoulders. I will defend this family, and this country, even-- _especially_ \-- from you.”  
  
Lima scoffs. “Is that a threat, little girl?”  
  
“That’s a _promise_ ,” Tavi says, glaring at the assembled scribes, “and don’t any of you forget it.”  
  
Tavi catches Cassie’s eyes from among the stunned crowd. She gives her a nod, and a smirk, and then she’s striding away out the doors of Castle Zofia, Viktoriya’s robe dusting the ground as she walks.  
  
“Your Highness!” Cassie calls after Tavi’s departing form, her voice echoed by dozens of chattering scribes. _“Your Highness!”_  
  
~*~  
  
The year after the fire passes in a blur.  
  
First, Pegastym, autumn. Change comes on the wind like a messenger on pegasus-back, and when the leaves fall, everything falls. Handmaiden Talia is committed to the earth the night after Lady Liprica is offered to the sky. The Zofian royal family is scattered, but not divided. Princess Anthiese, now Celica, after her mother, vanishes into the night; she is Zofia’s lost princess, but not the last. Princess Octavia flees into the mountains with her brother, Arcturus, bearing the last remnants of Lady Viktoriya’s house; Viktoriya’s robe around Tavi’s shoulders, her staff in Arc’s hands, and her last loyal servants in their care.  
  
Tavi gathers her meager force together and pledges their strength to the defense of Zofia, from beast, bandit, and battalion. On the night after the fire, her force numbers a paltry six: herself, her brother, Arc, who shares bookkeeping duties with her chef, Melusine, the stable boy Harris, the lumberjack Gerard, and Vesper, amateur swordfighter and hopeful hero. After her ill-fated confrontation with her father at Zofia Castle, she returns to the village with a seventh in tow: Cassie Vega, junior scribe, eager to bear witness to history in the making.  
  
Tavi’s mercenary company is born, a week after King Lima IV officially declares her “missing” alongside Arc and the entirety of Lady Viktoriya’s estate. Melusine offers to come up with a logo. Cassie, historian at heart, is more interested in a name.  
  
In autumn of 384 VC, Talia’s Talons begin their career, under the banner of a black hawk on a white field.  
  
Then, Wyrmstym, winter. When the world is shrouded in snow and lit from within with the light of hearth and home, like the lair of a sleeping dragon.  
  
Lady Viktoriya, her children, and her fellow refugees find shelter in the embrace of Ram Village’s Fletcher Family, and baby Celica survives, secreted away into the countryside. While the other villagers would chafe at the thought of having so many more mouths to feed, Josefine’s bow and Serafine’s snares ensure that nobody goes hungry, not even in the leanest winter months.  
  
In exchange, the fugitives offer what they can. Mycen and Ashe put their strength towards handiwork around the village, crafting, building, lifting, fixing. Viktoriya offers her invaluable skills as a healer. Without her staff, she is left unable to perform anything save the most basic healing spells. But her knowledge of herbs remains intact, and Ram tentatively welcomes her as their first proper apothecary.  
  
Ram is slow to welcome these newest additions to the Fletcher family, a house whose women already had an odd reputation around town. That all changes after Viktoriya spends a harrowing night with a woman who’d had a troubled pregnancy and whose delivery was even more fraught. Thanks to Viktoriya’s efforts, she survives-- and her son lives, as well.  
  
Tobin is born in the winter of 384 VC, just before the new year. His godmother’s son, Gray, born the previous winter under similarly cloudy skies, peers down at him from above his cradle. His inquisitive eyes are soon joined by Faye, then Conrad, even Celica-- a generation bound by fate.  
  
Unbeknownst to them, another child of fate is born, far to the north, in the heart of Castle Rigel, right on the cusp of the new year. He, too, bears a Brand, like Celica. He, too, will catch the eyes of wicked men.  
  
But the world turns, and a new year comes, with new love, and new life-- even among the dead.  
  
Flostym, 385 VC, springtime. Life emerges from beneath winter’s shroud, and claws its way up out of crypts and mausoleums. A poison has seeped into the land, animating those entombed within and calling monsters up from the earth. Terrors stalk the lands, a new adversary alongside bandit and beast.  
  
The Talons, after whetting their appetites on cutpurses and highwaymen, dedicate themselves to fighting these monsters with a newfound resolve. For bandits are one thing; the revenants and bonewalkers assaulting the public are things even competent village militias are unprepared to face, lacking the tools or the techniques to put them down permanently.  
  
Arc, though he wields the staff of a saint, finds himself unable to duplicate the miracles he witnessed on the night of the fire. The ability to summon phantasmal warriors to bolster their ranks; the ability to heal whole congregations with a word; the ability to banish entire flocks of Terrors into ash and dust; all these powers swim beneath the surface of Viktoriya’s staff, in his hands but beyond his reach. However, one blessing does come to his grasp, one perhaps less impressive than Viktoriya’s miracles on that fateful night, but one no less crucial. At Arc’s blessing, the Talons’ weapons glow with a gentle white light, and when those blessed weapons strike down Terrors, they stay down for good.  
  
Valentia is not at war. But it is certainly not at peace.  
  
Zofia’s funerary traditions, of burying their dead rather than burning them, are being weaponized against them. The Talons, sensing dark intent behind the sudden outbreak of Terror activity, traces the attacks back to the source. There are sorcerers in their midst; some, new skirmishers from across the border; some, holdouts from the initial attack on Viktoriya’s estate that have bided their time in hiding, waiting for the chance to wreak some havoc.  
  
This new focus, on hunting down the rogue summoners of the Duma Faithful and destroying their conjured daemons, gives the Talons a newfound reputation for monster-slaying. Cassie suggests that it’s time for a rebranding, following public opinion. And Tavi, while reluctant to shift their focus away from honoring Talia’s memory, agrees.  
  
In spring of 385 VC, Talia’s Talons become The Seraphim, flying a banner of a white wing on a red field, and news of their heroism continues to spread…  
  
The seasons turn. Summer arrives, Avistym, the season of birds. The birds fly high over the fields as planting season comes into full swing, and in Ram Village, life goes on, untouched by risen monsters or the growing tensions between the Knights of Zofia and the common man.  
  
Officially, Lady Viktoriya is declared dead, and Tavi and Arc are still said to be missing. Slayde, Lima’s new Knight-Captain in Mycen’s absence and mouthpiece of the monarchy, rides across the country giving pat speeches disparaging the rise of “reckless vigilantes” and flatly denying the existence of Terrors. But the rumors persist, of the rogue princess defending the people from demons when the Knights of Zofia stand idly by, and of her sister, the lost princess, who will rise from the ashes of this conflict and take the throne after her elder sister clears the way.  
  
Whoever’s circulating these rumors doesn’t seem to be taking into account that lost princess Celica is only nine months old at this point, and still struggles to walk on her own two feet. That’s gossip for you.  
  
Toddler Faye, proud of the fact that she’s been walking by herself for half a year now, tries her best to impart her wisdom to her junior. She holds Celica’s hand as Celica wobbles along, the grass swiftly becoming well acquainted with Celica’s knees.  
  
Ashe is sitting on the front steps, whittling the bark from a long branch, watching the girls at play. She can see Mycen in the distance, his hair glowing gray in the bright sunlight as if foreshadowing the emergence of his first gray hairs. He’s putting his back into shoving a plow down the fields, tilling the dark soil. Serafine follows behind him, bending over to scoop a hollow out of the soil and to tuck a seed inside. She catches Ashe’s eyes across the way and winks, shamelessly enjoying her view of Mycen’s toned form bent over a plow.  
  
As for Josefine and Conrad, Ashe can’t see where they are, but she can smell their handiwork-- the tantalizing aroma of freshly-baked cookies drifting out on the breeze, certain to lure Faye and Celica back inside once their battle against Celica’s center of gravity is through.  
  
Across the town square, a pair of women cheerily wave goodbye to “Miss Tori”, bundling away little Gray and baby Tobin in their arms. Viktoriya smiles and returns to Ashe’s side, easing herself down onto the porch steps, a smuggled copy of the Zofian Chronicle tucked under her arm.  
  
Within its pages lie news of the world beyond Ram’s sleepy borders, a world where Octavia, the Rogue Princess, defends the people of Zofia from the risen dead while the Knights and nobles cower in the capital. But before they dive into that vicarious adventure, they simply sit together, arms linked at the elbows, Viktoriya’s head leaning into Ashe’s shoulder.  
  
“What’ve you got there?” Viktoriya asks, nodding to Ashe’s little woodworking project.  
  
Ashe smiles, and shrugs. “Walking stick. It’d be a staff, if we had anything we could use as a focus. Maybe your pendant.”  
  
“Sorry, but no,” Viktoriya says, reaching up to brush her fingertips against the silver locket around her neck. She smiles, her eyes bearing a flickering hint of apology, of regret. “It was a gift.”  
  
Ashe remembers a similar pendant, a golden triskelion, that had also been a gift to Viktoriya, once upon a time. Viktoriya had returned it to her, the day after the fire. She’s touched that Viktoriya held onto it for so long. Ashe carries it in her pocket as a memento. She can’t bring herself to actually wear it.  
  
Ashe finds herself reaching into her pocket, reflexively brushing her fingers against the loops of gold. They shimmer, infused with magic, warm to the touch, familiar, nostalgic. She pulls her hand away before the memories take hold.  
  
“You wanna know something?” Ashe muses, watching Celica trip over herself for the third time in the past minute.  
  
“Yes?” Viktoriya murmurs. Her voice is so soft it sends a flicker of… something through Ashe’s chest.  
  
Ashe watches Celica stumble a fourth time, and little Faye huffs, one pudgy hand on her hip. Ashe chuckles.  
  
“...Your daughter’s pretty bad at this ‘walking’ thing,” Ashe teases.  
  
Viktoriya just shakes her head, and squeezes Ashe’s arm.  
  
“Baby steps,” she says.  
  
A breeze ruffles Viktoriya’s hair and fans it out around her head. The light settles in her hair, shining like a halo. On the grass before them, Celica takes halting steps, falls, and then Faye pulls her back up, babbling all the while. Viktoriya tugs Ashe closer and lets her tuck her chin on her shoulder as they read editor Cassie Vega’s tales of the Rogue Princess’ exploits, of public opinion shifting against King Lima, idle on his throne while monsters menace his people, and towards the real hero, marching under a banner of white wings on a red field. The breeze picks up again, carrying with it the scents of cinnamon, sugar, and freshly tilled soil.  
  
At some point, Ashe takes Viktoriya’s hand. Viktoriya laces their fingers together, without any fuss.  
  
On a day like today, it’s so easy to believe that the world is at peace. Summer 385 VC passes in an eyeblink, every day oozing into the next like honey, sweet, languid, and lazy.  
  
Almost a year, now, since that fateful fire, and life, it seems, has found a way.  
  
But autumn comes, like the first shadow over a cloudless day. And when the leaves fall, everything falls...  
  
~*~  
  
Ashe wakes with a gasp.  
  
She sits up slowly, her breath coming shallow, pained. The arrow wound between her shoulder blades is long healed. But there’s another sharp ache, tugging from within her chest. She’d been waking up like this for a week now, since the start of Pegastym. She’d joked, before, that it was because Serafine was such a good cook and she’d just been eating too fast. And while Viktoriya had laughed, her eyes betrayed her worry. Chest pains weren’t something to take lightly, she’d warned.  
  
Viktoriya’s still asleep. Ashe reaches over and squeezes her arm. Viktoriya leans into the touch, but doesn’t wake. Beside her, little Conrad clings to her leg, having climbed into bed with them after having a bad dream.  
  
Ashe glances up, to Celica in her crib in the corner, and to the silver pendant reverently laid out on the dresser. Ashe sighs. She claps her hands on her knees and gets to her feet, pulls open the door--  
  
\--and nearly runs headfirst into Josefine, bow slung over her shoulder, errant twigs still caught in her cloak.  
  
“Efi?” Ashe wonders.  
  
“Ashe,” Josefine swallows hard. “We got a problem.”  
  
~*~  
  
“You’re certain of this?” Ashe hisses.  
  
“Cross m’ heart,” Josefine nods. “Fella like that’s got no business in Fleecer’s Forest ‘fore sunrise. Purple robe, skinny as a rake, eyes like a devil’s. We’ve got a sorcerer on our doorstep.”  
  
The Conductor and his thralls flick across Ashe’s eyes. She scowls. “Did he have any women with him? Dark gowns, empty eyes?”  
  
“No,” Josefine shakes her head. “Just the one. You suppose he’s comin’ after you?”  
  
Ashe’s eyes dart to Celica in her crib.  
  
“Not me,” Ashe says grimly.  
  
Josefine follows her eyes with dawning horror. “...Aw, hell. How did they find us?”  
  
Ashe feels it again-- that ache, that tugging in her chest. But then the realization hits her, and she exhales slowly, slipping her vision into astral space.  
  
In that halfway place, the domain of mages and monsters, the light of life shines like a star. She can see Viktoriya, blazing like a torch. Josefine, sunny and warm, her essence pooling in her feet like the roots of a great tree. And she sees herself, a silhouette of cold blue fire, with a single tendril pulling away from her, streaking into the horizon.  
  
Guilt spears into Ashe as surely as an arrow between her shoulders. Reality snaps back into focus with a gasp, and she swears under her breath.  
  
“He’s scrying for me,” Ashe snarls. She pounds a fist into the dresser in frustration, sending the pendant clattering to the floorboards.  
  
She takes a deep breath, and sighs. She picks up Liprica’s locket, dusts it off, and sets it back on the dresser beside the magicked candle that’s stayed lit for the past year.  
  
She pulls open the dresser drawer, shoves aside piles of clothes, and retrieves her sword.  
  
“Auntie?” comes a small voice behind her.  
  
“Go back to bed, sweetie,” Josefine urges. But when Ashe turns around, Conrad’s still there, staring at the sword in her hands.  
  
“You’re going to fight bad guys,” he says.  
  
“Yes,” Ashe murmurs.  
  
“And you’re going to come back?”  
  
Ashe swallows hard, and looks away.  
  
“...Go back to sleep.”  
  
~*~  
  
There are monsters in the woods.  
  
The sorcerer lurks, a shadow among the trees, haloed by falling leaves. It’s just past the turn of the season, and Fleecer’s Forest is only just beginning to turn from green to gold. He holds up his hand, his ring tied to his target’s astral signature. A line visible only to those gifted in magic stretches out through the treeline and into the village beyond. A thread, binding him to his quarry.  
  
He lays a withered hand against a tree, and lets his toxic aura spill into the wood. The tree shivers and wilts, weathering through the whole of autumn in an instant-- leaves crumbling to red and dull brown, the wood shriveling into the skeletal black of winter. The tree crumbles into splinters, and a wind passes through the forest, sweeping the debris into its embrace.  
  
Creatures take shape at the summoner’s command: revenants, with claws like splinters and flesh like crinkling leaves, born of the forest and animated by fell magic, mockeries of Mila, The Earth Mother, giver of life. They turn their sights upon the village, violet stars burning in their paper skulls.  
  
Meeting their gaze, with sword drawn and frost crackling at her fingertips, Sister Ashe stands alone.  
  
A year ago, she led the assault on Viktoriya’s cloister. Rigel had nothing for her anymore; Viktoriya gone, her nation in upheaval, her faith in tatters. The night of the fire was supposed to be her last mission. One last mission. Seeing Vicky one last time.  
  
Mila provides. Through her servant, Viktoriya, Mila gave Ashe a new home, a new life.  
  
But some things, you can’t dodge forever.  
  
And when the leaves fall…  
  
The town bell tolls like funeral bells. Runners sprint through the town, raising the alarm. Gates are closed. Doors are locked. Frightened eyes peer through gaps in window shutters, at the lone woman on the hill beyond the gates.  
  
Revenants descend, shrieking, howling like wind through the trees.  
  
Ashe leaps into battle, dancing around claws of jagged wood, sending dark magic contructs crumbling into piles of leaves and ash with every swing of her sword. A revenant rakes a trio of bloody lines down her back. She spins, cutting the thread holding his body together and scattering him into crumbling leaves. She grabs a revenant by the face, freezes its, and shatters its skull against her blade. She hooks her fingers, frost crackling in her hands, and throws her arm aside. A trio of revenants stop in their tracks, gagging, thrown icicles transfixing their throats.  
  
A swipe catches her in the legs and she stumbles in the grass. She rolls to her feet, swatting aside an incoming swipe and cleaving a revenant in two. Another swipe tears open her forearm, blood dribbling down her fingers. The revenant is blasted apart by a gust of frigid air. Ashe forms a dagger in her free hand and punches it into a revenant’s gut, before whipping her arm aside and impaling another revenant through the eye with a thrown spike. Ashe hooks her fingers and conjures another handful of throwing knives, her icicles growing dark, stained with her own blood.  
  
The summoner watches her from the trees. He meets her gaze with eyes that shine like baleful violet stars, before he turns, and retreats into the wood. Ashe barks out a curse.  
  
She throws herself forward, ignoring the searing pain in her arms, her thigh, down her back. She ignores the frantic cries arising from Ram Village as the monsters scrabble over the walls and into their midst. In her mind’s eye, she can see the web of magic connecting the summoner with his thralls. The summoner is the key. If she could just cut his thread--  
  
There’s too many. They scratch and they bite and they tear at her clothes, her armor, sinking their claws into her arms and legs and dragging her down. Ashe’s legs feel like jelly, and her arms feel like lead. The ache settles in her heart, and the weight of fatigue presses down across her shoulders. Darkness flickers at the edge of her senses. She can feel the specter of death lingering nearby, waiting to swallow her up in his embrace.  
  
For one, dreadful moment, she considers letting him.  
  
But then the unmistakable whistling of arrows through the air cuts through her morbid thoughts and crumbles the mob of ghouls dogpiling her into dead leaves and dust. Ashe hisses in pain as their claws are dislodged and the constructs fall to pieces at her feet-- but the pain is clarifying. Grounding. It snaps her out of her fatigue in an instant.  
  
“Ha! I’ve still got it,” Serafine grins up at her from the base of the hill. She lifts her bow, still as a stone, and fires six shots in quick succession, one after the other. Each shot hits their mark perfectly, reducing shrieking revenants into broken husks of dead leaves.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me he could call for help?!” Josefine screeches as she comes running. She fires an arrow just over Ashe’s shoulder, nailing a revenant right between the eyes, before wrapping her in a bear hug, blinking away frightened tears. “You idiot! You damn fool hero! You were just gonna come out here n’ fight this sumbitch all by yourself?!”  
  
“Efi?” Ashe blinks. She shakes away her daze. “Look, get back, both of you! They can’t know that Celica’s here!”  
  
“Who’s Celica?” Serafine asks blithely, firing another perfect shot. She’s not as quick on her feet as she used to be, but her aim is still proud and true. “All I see are two of Ram’s hunters, chasing some creep and his pets off our turf.”  
  
She flashes Ashe a daring grin. Ashe sighs, but can’t help but grin back.  
  
Josefine pulls Ashe to her feet, and claps a hand on her shoulder. Their eyes meet for a long moment. Ashe nods.  
  
“Let’s go,” she says.  
  
Another swarm of ghouls are waiting for them within the trees, their puppetmaster lurking close behind. Ashe and the Fletchers meet the tide head on, with sword, shot, and spell.  
  
~*~  
  
It’s almost sunrise by the time they chase the last revenant from Ram Village. In the face of this unexpected resistance, the summoner makes a fighting retreat through Fleecer’s Forest. By the time Ashe and Josefine catch him, fatigue has caught up to them. Josefine’s last arrow misses her mark, but not by much, burying itself in the summoner’s kneecap instead of his chest.  
  
Ashe plants her boot on the sorcerer’s throat, and finishes the job.  
  
The sorcerer shudders and dies, vomiting a cloud of putrid black smoke tinged with dark magic. Ashe yanks her sword out of his chest, and slides it back into her sheath with a sigh.  
  
The sun crests the trees, and with it, a banner- red and gold, the colors of Rigel.  
  
“Don’t tell me he brought friends,” Josefine murmurs, staring at the encroaching group. Ashe glances at the emblem on the banner- two golden wings on a red field, folded across one another so as to mimic the silhouette of a tree- and exhales, shaking her head.  
  
“It’s not Rigel,” she says. She meets Josefine’s eyes. “Get back to Ram, and go check on Vicky. I’ll be right behind you.”  
  
Josefine frowns, but nods, and she and Serafine vanish back into the woods.  
  
Ashe watches them go. She closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath.  
  
Tavi’s mercenaries close in around her, Tavi herself in the lead.  
  
“That’s nice work,” Tavi says, to Ashe’s back, glancing down at the sorcerer’s corpse at her feet. “Very nice. We’d been tracking reports of a summoner moving southwest, hoping to hunt him down before he caused any trouble. But it looks like you beat us to it.”  
  
Tavi tilts her head to the side, noticing the myriad scrapes and scratches staining Ashe’s form with her blood- most worryingly, the slice along her left forearm that’s still weeping blood.  
  
“Hey,” Tavi says, “are you hurt? We have a healer with us who can take a look at you. It’s the least we can do, after you went ahead and did our job for us.”  
  
Ashe doesn’t move. Tavi blinks, puzzled, taking another step closer.  
  
“Look, uh… I know you might not be too eager to shake hands with a group of armed strangers. But, uh, we’re a mercenary group. Not bandits. Nothing to fear. You might have heard of us. The Talons, the Seraphim… we’re still working on the name, we’ve kinda been trying different ones out, trying to find a good brand, you know.”  
  
Still nothing. Tavi sighs, and shakes her head.  
  
“C’mon, stranger, you don’t gotta be shy. Call me Tavi. What’s your name?”  
  
Ashe swallows hard. She turns, and finally meets Tavi’s eyes.  
  
“Sister Ashe,” she says, “of the Duma Faithful.”  
  
Tavi recoils, as if slapped. Her face scrunches up in anguish, fire flicking across her eyes. Tavi roars, war axe in her hands. Ashe reflexively draws her sword, raising it in a block--  
  
\--but Tavi is the one who stops short, Arc’s hand around her wrist.  
  
“Wait,” Arc hisses, breathless, tears in his eyes. “ _Wait_ .”  
  
And, despite her body screaming at her to charge forward, Tavi waits. Now, as then, a single touch, a single word is enough to put a leash on her infamous temper. She’s seventeen now, having bulked up after a year of travel and mercenary work. It would take Gerard and Vesper working together, or a particularly strong dose of griproot, to stop Tavi in her tracks. Arc manages it with a touch, and a word.  
  
“You,” Tavi breathes, mustering all her anger into a single word of concentrated hate. “You. You were there, on the night of the fire.”  
  
A lonely breeze ruffles Ashe’s hair. She closes her eyes, and nods. Her sword clicks back into its sheath.  
  
“Yes,” she admits.  
  
Tavi clenches her jaw, tightening her grip on her war axe until her knuckles are white.  
  
“...A lot of good people are dead now, because of you,” Tavi seethes. “And here you are… hiding in the woods…!”  
  
Tavi takes a step forward. She feels Arc’s grip tighten around her wrist.  
  
“It’s not fair!” Tavi bellows. “Why do _you_ get to live?! Why are _you_ here and not her?! _Murderer!_ Did you think we would forget? Did you think you could hide in the country while justice passed you by?!”  
  
“No,” Ashe says, resolute. “I knew this day would come, sooner or later.”  
  
Tavi grits her teeth. “...Then draw your sword.”  
  
Ashe frees her sword from its sheath, ringing in the crisp autumn air. She raises her blade in salute, glinting in the wan morning light.  
  
Then she throws it aside, into the grass, and opens her arms.  
  
“Go on,” Ashe says. She falls to her knees, and bows her head. “Claim your justice.”  
  
Tavi stares at her, stunned, her face pinched with anger and grief.  
  
“...What the hell is this…?” she growls.  
  
“I am a killer,” Ashe says, her eyes closed in prayer, her arms open, inviting. “It was always going to end like this.”  
  
Tavi takes a shuddering breath. “...Get up.”

Ashe bows her head, murmuring.

"Father Duma... lord of the forge... defender of hearth and home..."

Tavi's eyes flick to meet Arc's in a silent question.   
  
"She's praying," Arc breathes. 

Ashe shudders, her eyes wet. 

"May the light of your forge guide those who live, yet walk in darkness..."   
  
Tavi's eyes flash. "Get up."  
  
"May the tools of your making guide them to victory..." Ashe chokes out. "Shield them with courage. Arm them with faith..."

In Ashe's tunic pocket, her fingers close around a pendant. A golden triskelion, given in love, returned in regret.

"...and on the battlefields to come... may they never fight alone."

"GET UP!" Tavi shrieks.

“Go on!” Ashe shoots back. “Do it! You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?!”  
  
“Not like this!” Tavi snaps, tears in her eyes. “You think I’m someone who would execute an unarmed woman on her knees? Get up! Pick up your sword and face me properly! Get up!”  
  
“You’re a woman of honor, Princess Octavia,” Ashe says softly. “...You’re not like me. Your aunt would be proud-”  
  
“Shut up! You don’t get to talk about my family like you know them!” Tavi snarls. “You don’t… You don’t know Aunt Tori. You’re a dead woman, a ghost. A liar. A killer!”  
  
“I am all of those things,” Ashe says, the confession heavy on her tongue. “But I do know your Aunt Viktoriya. I know her, and I loved her. I love her still.”  
  
“Shut up!” Tavi cries. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! You’re a killer. You don’t get to love. You’re a murderer… a monster…”  
  
“Monsters can love,” Ashe whispers. “But they must still be put down.”  
  
Tavi seethes. She raises her axe in both hands--  
  
\--and sinks to her knees.  
  
Tavi kneels, propped up against her axe. She bows her head against her axe, as if in prayer. A shadow falls across her eyes.  
  
“...Go.” Tavi chokes out. “Just go.”  
  
Ashe opens her eyes, and sees Tavi on her knees, her shoulders shaking. She reaches for her, but hesitates, working her jaw.  
  
Vesper breaks from the crowd and kneels by Tavi’s side, murmuring. Arc meets her eyes for a moment, before rising. He crosses over to Ashe’s kneeling form, and falls to one knee beside her.  
  
“She’s with you, isn’t she?” Arc begins. “In the village beyond these woods. She’s here, with our brother and sister, Conrad and Celica. Isn’t she?”  
  
“Yes,” Ashe swallows hard. “But the agents of the Empire are everywhere. They’re still searching for Celica. If they find her, they’ll take her. They’ll sacrifice her soul to the High Dragons, and they’ll kill everyone who gets in their way. They can’t know she’s there.”  
  
Arc smiles, but it’s a pained smile. “...I know how to keep a secret. And,” he says, nodding towards the sorcerer still sprawled out in the grass, “I know you can keep her safe.”  
  
Arc offers Ashe his hand. She stares at him, wondering.  
  
She takes his hand, and a torrent of healing power surges into her skin. She shivers, the myriad cuts and claw marks across her form sealing and becoming whole. Arc pulls her to her feet. Ashe breathes deep of the autumn air and lets out a satisfied sigh, glancing idly at the mercenary group’s red and gold banner.  
  
“Tell me,” Ashe wonders, curious. “Why does a merc company led by a Priest of Mila and the Princess of Zofia fly the colors of Rigel?”  
  
Arc follows her gaze up to the banner. He meets her eyes, and shrugs.  
  
“...Duma protects.”  
  
They part ways, Arc joining Vesper in ushering Tavi back to her crowd, leaving Ashe standing on the edge of the wood. Tavi’s group crowds around her protectively, murmuring.  
  
“You okay, Boss?” Gerard wonders.  
  
“Are you _going_ to be okay?” Melusine says gently.  
  
“Yes, yes,” Tavi says, wiping her eyes. “I’m fine.”  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want to visit the village?” Vesper asks. “You haven’t seen your aunt or your sibs in, like, a year.”  
  
“No,” Tavi says. “It’s time we got moving.”  
  
“Are you really sure?” Cassie chimes in, blinking owlishly behind her spectacles. “We can go! Go see your family! And- And I won’t let any word get out about the lost princess or where she’s hiding. Scribe’s honor, I swear!”  
  
“It’s fine,” Tavi insists. She claps a hand on Cassie’s shoulder, managing a grin. “They’ll read about us.”  
  
“Princess!”  
  
Tavi goes stiff, but she turns, meeting Ashe’s eyes across the field.  
  
“What is it, Sister?”  
  
“What was her name?”  
  
Tavi feels an ache in her heart, and Arc’s hand in hers.  
  
“Talia,” Tavi replies. "Handmaiden Talia, of House Rothschild. She was twenty years old."  
  
Ashe bows her head, jaw tight. “I’m so sorry."

"...Yeah."

Tavi nods. She takes a deep breath and lets out a shuddering sigh. She glances up at her banner, of golden wings across a red sky, and turns her anger towards brighter days and worthier foes.  
  
“Phoenix Company!” Tavi cries, in the commanding voice of a would-be Queen. “Let’s move out!”  
  
~*~  
  
Winter, 385 VC. There’s a fire crackling in the hearth, and gray skies out the window- so deep and so gray Ashe almost thinks it’ll snow.  
  
Ashe is lying in bed, with the newest issue of the Zofian Chronicle in hand and a golden triskelion around her neck. Viktoriya lies beside her, Celica half-asleep on her stomach, Viktoriya honestly not too far behind.  
  
Ashe turns a page in her pamphlet. Her hand finds Viktoriya’s, and they link their fingers without any fuss.  
  
“Mommy?” comes a voice at the door.  
  
“What is it, sweetie?” Viktoriya coos. Conrad still has flour on his hands, his face and much of his shirt. His eyes flit between Viktoriya and Ashe, and he tilts his head to the side in wonder.  
  
“Is Auntie Ashe your _girlfriend_ ?”  
  
Viktoriya chuckles.  
  
“...No, sweetie,” Viktoriya says, glancing over her shoulder and fondly meeting Ashe’s eyes. “...But, well… she sure is something.”  
  
Ashe grins, squeezing Viktoriya’s hand. Conrad nods to himself, as if he’s figured it all out, and scurries back into the kitchen where Auntie Josefine’s waiting.  
  
“Mama,” Celica burbles into Viktoriya’s belly.  
  
“I’m right here, baby,” Viktoriya coos, sitting Celica up on her chest. “And look! Your Auntie Ashe is here, too. Can you say ‘Ashe’?”  
  
“Mash!”  
  
“Not quite, squirt,” Ashe grins. “C’mon. Ashe. Aaaaashe.”  
  
“Ass!”  
  
Viktoriya snorts, vibrating with laughter. Celica joins her, giggling and squealing.  
  
“Little brat…” Ashe murmurs fondly, ruffling the little wisps of Celica’s hair.  
  
On a night like this, it’s so easy for Ashe to believe the world is at peace. There’s a fire in the hearth, and a warmth in her chest, and fond voices filling the air.  
  
Valentia isn’t at peace. Terrors stalk the land, bandits menace the peasantry, and Ashe’s old masters in the Duma Faithful continue scheming behind the scenes. Tensions between Rigel and Zofia, tensions that King Lima IV doesn’t seem eager to address, continue nudging the continent towards conflict. The rumors of the rogue Princess Octavia, and the whispers of rebellion, continue to circulate, no matter how many times Captain Slayde insists that the Knights of Zofia will keep the people safe.  
  
The seeds of war are taking root beneath the veneer of a fragile peace. But it’s still so easy to believe.  
  
Valentia is not at peace. Not by a long shot.  
  
But tonight, Ashe is content.  
  
And, for now, that's enough.   
  
~*~


End file.
